


The Spider-Man is Always Hungry

by foxpuppet



Category: Deadpool (Comics), Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man (Comicverse), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Dom!Peter, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Rimming, Rough Sex, Short, Sub!Wade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2020-03-07 09:32:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18870493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxpuppet/pseuds/foxpuppet
Summary: People saw Wade and Peter and assumed they must have certain roles. People were so very, very wrong.





	The Spider-Man is Always Hungry

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Lullaby" by The Cure
> 
> I was browsing spiderpool art a while ago and was struck by how it was pretty much exclusively top!Wade. I don't mind Wade topping (switches are boss) but Wade is cannon sub and I dearly love a cannon sub man.

People saw Wade and people saw Peter. And people immediately assumed the dynamics of their relationship were obvious. They assumed someone as bombastic as Wade and someone as awkward as Peter must have certain, easily identifiable, roles in bed. 

People were so very, very wrong. 

What Wade wanted, what Wade  _ needed _ , was to be utterly dominated in bed.  

He didn't top from the bottom, wasn't domineering or controlling while getting off. He wanted to be placed entirely in the hands of someone else. He wanted to be ridden hard and put away wet. He wanted to be  _ used _ . 

And Peter wanted to use him. 

Peter saw Wade, larger than life and twice as ugly. And he wanted to do anything and everything to him. Wanted to push him down, tie him up and take him hard. Wanted to make him scream and moan and ride Peter's dick so hard he saw stars. 

Peter wanted to wrap Wade in webbing and consume him like the spider he'd named himself for. 

And Wade wanted to be consumed. 

To say they fit perfectly was an understatement. From the way Peter's head tucked neatly under Wade's chin to the way Peter's hands wrapped vice-like around Wade's wrists, they were matched. 

Wade and Peter. 

Peter and Wade. 

The wisecracking duo of New York, New York. 

When they were together it was fireworks, it was earthquakes, it was all the stupid cliches that feel trite and empty until they’re yours.

When Peter threw Wade against a wall hard enough to shake loose dust and pieces of crumbled brick, it was magic. When he gripped Wade’s face hard enough to bruise so he could kiss him so violently both their lips split, it was a goddamn miracle.

Wade would slide to his knees, mindless of wherever it was they were - Peter’s tiny apartment, a rooftop, an alleyway with criminals still looking for them both -  yank down whatever Peter was wearing at the time and suck him into his mouth. He would moan and whimper and look up at Peter with eyes filled with pleading until Peter wrapped his hand around the back of Wade’s head and thrust himself past Wade’s limits. He would sink himself into the glorious heaven of that hungry throat and hear Wade’s pleased whines choking on his dick.

He would push until he wasn’t sure if he or Wade were going to come first.

Then Peter would yank Wade up and spin him around. Peter would fall to his knees in turn and use teeth and lip and tongue on that most cherished of places. And Wade would squeal every time, as though the very idea had never occurred to him, at the first sucking kiss Peter would place against his hole. He would squirm until Peter had to hold him in place. He would gasp and groan and say things so filthy Peter still blushed even as he ate Wade out like a starving man.

Then Wade would finally beg prettily enough that Peter would rise up, lift one of Wade’s legs so high it almost touched his shoulder and slide into the not-quite-loose heat of Wade’s body.

It was only then that Wade would lose his voice. He would claw wordlessly at whatever surface he was crushed against, press back onto Peter’s hips until he bruised himself. He would clutch at Peter’s hips in a wordless plea to start moving.

And Peter wouldn’t move.

He would sit, buried in the tight  _ tootight _ heat of Wade’s body, and wait. 

Wade would writhe. Push and pull. He had thrown a punch more than once. He would gather enough voice to beg, nearly all breath, that Peter move, move,  _ please _ . 

It wasn’t until Wade collapsed back against the wall, until he gave up any and all semblance of control, that Peter would start to thrust.

A deep and slow fuck that build until it was hard and fast. An indefatigable rhythm that shook them both to their bones.

Again Wade would cry and moan, sounds from the pit of his stomach, as though Peter was jarring them loose from his very soul. He would clutch at the wall, dig his nonexistent nails into the drywall or grout or brickwork. He would curse and praise Peter by turns as tears filled his eyes but never fell.

Peter had cried more than once from how perfect it all felt. How fucking Wade into oblivion felt more like home than anywhere he had ever been.

And he would lean close and whisper gentle words into Wade’s ear. Such sweet contrast to the harsh coupling they both adored. He whispered that Wade was perfect, that he was treasured. That Peter wished they could stay like this, just like this, forever.

Wade would come on a cry that almost sounded pained. Peter would follow seconds after.

They would pant and gasp together, too energized to even think of sleep still wishing for somewhere soft to lay together. To wind down from the high together. To twine around each other and listen to their heartbeats fall into almost perfect sync.

Wade and Peter.

Peter and Wade.

People didn’t need to understand how. They just fit.


End file.
